On January 14, 2012, amidst tears of joy, I clumsily stumbled through the reading of a letter that I had written. On the final page was the question, "Will you marry me?"

She said yes.

Promises I couldn't makeDespite our excitement, however, I
still struggled with feelings of guilt. Unlike most guys my age, I
couldn't promise Katie the illusion of a comfortable and secure life.

I
couldn't promise that we'd avoid adversity or that I'd be by her side
on my 90th birthday. I could only promise that I'd do my best to hold
her hand as we navigated through my often uncertain reality.

I spent the first part of my diagnosis pushing those feelings aside, never acknowledging that my situation was different from those of my peers.

Guilt
is easy to ignore when cancer doesn't directly affect the lives of
those intimately connected to you. That's why it's easy to push people
away, to not let anyone get close to you, to give in to the temptation
to isolate yourself from the world.

Guilt is always best served in isolation.

Although
I knew Katie was emotionally invested in our relationship, the
significance of an engagement and eventual marriage meant that every
result from every piece of bone marrow taken from my body moving forward
would be reflected in every tear of sadness or joy that falls down
her cheek. In an irrational way, I feel responsible for that.

When
I sought the engagement blessing of Katie's father, I did my best to
acknowledge this awareness and assure him that I'd honor his little girl
in a way that goes beyond life and all of its misfortune.

Even
though I've overcome so much hardship at such a young age, it's
sometimes difficult not to feel inadequate. It was all I could do to
assure us both that I'd never give up our happiness for an illness I
couldn't control.

Harsh realities of cancerSoon after our engagement, I began a clinical trial
at MD Anderson. I didn't think much about how the trial could impact
our new life because I'd never before experienced significant side effects from my medications.

However, I quickly learned that I'd underestimated the potential consequences of physical adversity.

The
trial failed. Soon after, we met with a stem cell transplant doctor to
discuss the a bone marrow transplant. This wasn't how I envisioned
everything would turn out.

Welcome to the world of cancer.

As
rewarding as it was to know that I would spend the rest of my life with
my best friend, I felt guilty for not knowing how long the rest of my
life would be.

The thought of introducing Katie to unfamiliar emotions that no young adult should be asked to experience made me feel selfish.

In
the same way that cancer corrupts the production of cells, the mind is
constantly faced with deception. It's often difficult to distinguish
between false feelings and reality.

"Is this my fault?" I often asked myself.

When treatment after a cancer diagnosis goes well, we're encouraged to live a normal life.

But
when that pursuit is disrupted by a questionable blood test or scan,
it's as if the normal life you tried to live was merely the fishnet used
to expose a new set of people to the harsh realities of the cancer
world. It's no wonder that some people never try to live a normal life
at all.

Our new normalKatie and I often talk to each
other about our feelings and try to process what we're each going
through, and that goes a long way. But guilt is a tricky emotion that is
often hard to reach.

We have to stay on top of it and
constantly reassure each other that negative feelings are distortions of
a deeper love and security. Throughout my seven years battling
leukemia, I learned that guilt is a part of the diagnosis.

Katie and I will get married in October of this year. I've reached a complete molecular remission,
and I know, for now, that the prognosis for a normal, healthy life is
somewhat good. But it's sometimes difficult to know that landmines exist
in our household.

This is our new normal. Every day that I wake
up, I realize I am the luckiest person in the world, first because I
have my health, and second, because Katie chose to be with me when she
didn't have to.

Justin Ozuna lives in Dallas and was diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukemia in January 2006. He is a Texas state representative and Dallas/Fort Worth facilitator for the National CML Society
and a patient at MD Anderson. His mission is to capture the ups and
downs of a young adult living with cancer and to serve people through
humor, encouragement, hope and adversity at his blog, theozunaverse.com.

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1 Comment

Justin, I feel as though I had written this myself. My story may be different as you have had to endure this battle much longer. I was diagnosed on May 9th, almost a year ago with AML. I had back pain which they thought was a kidney infection until a blood test showed otherwise. I was admitted that same day and treatment started the following day. Just like that- I lost my "normal" life. On May 14th, my boyfriend of over 4 years proposed to me with a mask on (I was nutrapenic). He had been planning on proposing, but unfortunately this was not what he invisioned. I feel your guilt everyday. I've had my BMT and am thankful, but the ugly monster that rears its head after is almost worst than the pain of all the chemo and transplant. But at the end of the day, like you, I am glad I have someone who loves me to share it with. I wish you and Katie all the best.